STRANGE BUT FOOD THERE'S NO ACCOUNTING FOR THE TASTE OF SOME NEW YORKERS

By DANIEL YOUNG

NEW YORK DAILY NEWS|

Jan 21, 1996 | 12:00 AM

The late, great Jerry Pero, renowned for his incomparable masterpizzas, needed help to identify the little dark circle at the back of his brick oven at Totonno Pizzeria Napoletano in Coney Island. "That," Louise (Cookie) Ciminieri said sympathetically to an ailing uncle losing his eyesight, "is Johnny Izzo's pizza.

" With no small pizza doughs left to prepare a replacement, Ciminieri was obliged to send the incinerated pie over to Izzo's apartment and brave the inevitable ire of a loyal customer. But minutes later, Izzo phoned to say it was by far the best pizza he ever tasted. Nearly every Sunday since, he has demanded a similarly blackened and, most would agree, ruined pie. The Johnny Izzo pizza is now but one outrageous, incomprehensible request amid an urban foodscape populated by 8 million people and many more opinions on good taste and what tastes good. Anyone courageous enough to get into the business of serving food to New Yorkers must be prepared to handle all sorts of strange, unpredictable demands that often defy logic and good taste. In fact, most veteran waiters, chefs and restaurateurs become inured to special requests like Johnny Izzo's that simply reflect an odd taste preference of congenital or environmental origin. Waitress Susan Russo of the Lexington Candy Shop on the upper East Side, for example, was unfazed by the man who wanted maple syrup in his coffee, though she did serve it on the side. Denise Zinger of Pastrami King in Kew Gardens regards such sandwich orders as "turkey skin on rye" and "pastrami fat on club" as routine. Rather, what sends food pros to their psychiatrists are the eccentrics who apparently skipped a few sessions on the couch. George Nicholas, an assistant manager at the Sage Diner in Elmhurst, easily accommodated the two gypsies who asked him to stuff and cook their pig, and the incessant demands for extra cheese and whipped cream from members of the "Fat is Beautiful Club.

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" He could not, however, stop obsessing about the twice-a-month customer who always demanded two empty water glasses. The waitstaff referred to the man who wouldn't let them pour his water as "Mr. Hydrophobia.

" Nicholas got some insight into the neurosis while adjusting a urinal in the Men's Room. Mr. Hydrophobia entered, filled one of his glasses with water and then transferred the water from one glass to the other a dozen or more times. Zinger would probably like to hide in the Men's Room when a regular known as Mr. Wacko arrives at Pastrami King's takeout counter. He repeats everything he wants to order twice and insists that Zinger do the same. If Mr. Wacko orders "stuffed derma stuffed derma, turkey sandwich turkey sandwich, matzo ball soup matzo ball soup," Zinger must answer back "stuffed derma stuffed derma, turkey sandwich turkey sandwich...

" What happens if Mr. Wacko wants two turkey sandwiches? "Don't even say that," says Zinger, later pondering the riddle of why her mom the boss is never around when the regulars like Mr. Wacko, Mr. French Fry and Mr. Brisket stop in. She should know that bosses become bosses so they can delegate maddening, at times impossible requests to subordinates like Louie Kuci, the manager at the Riverdale Diner in the Bronx. Kuci must cope with the bachelor who demands thicker waffles ("It's aways the same size," he explains. "Once it goes in the machine, it's not going nowhere.

") and the woman who is never happy with her order of canned salmon. "I show her three or four cans and tell her to pick one," he says. "Then she's happy.

" Redundant diners The landmark Pete's Tavern is something of a haven for eaters who place redundant orders: a lasagna with a side of spaghetti, a hamburger as an appetizer for a steak, etc. One twice-a-week diner, who manager Gary Egan describes as a cute, sandy-haired, 6-foot-tall model, orders only mashed potatoes and French fries. Maybe there's a nutritional message there. The most frequent and difficult solicitation at Rao's in East Harlem, reopened in December and now celebrating its 100th anniversary, is the request for a reservation. With Rao's 10 tables completely booked through May, owner Frank Pellegrino is living up to his nickname, "Frankie No.